Watching
by LCFC
Summary: The Winchester's from an outsiders point of view. Angst and character death! I own nothing!


It is late, beyond the witching hour and she really should be in bed. She sighs and gazes at the hot milk bubbling on the stove; she hates hot milk and has no idea why she is making it, just some vague idea of it helping her to sleep.

Behind her, the puppy clawed at her heel and gave her a pathetic whimper. She smiled and picked him up, holding his face against her, feeling it rub against her cheek. He gave her a friendly lick and she felt stupid tears prick her lashes.

She really hated being so alone.

The door banged, hard, three harsh knocks like something out of a Poe novel. She almost dropped the puppy, which squirmed from her grasp and began to bark, loud and insistent. Her heart began to pound hard and frantic and, beneath her towelling gown, her body shook like leaves blown in a sharp wind.

She moved over to the door, her eyes on the thick wood. She was sure it would hold, positive it would protect her. The knocks came again and, this time, they were accompanied by a voice, harsh and desperate, not supernatural at all.

"Help me," the voice was male, low and pleading, "Please, please, we need your help."

She bit her lip; there was so much evil in the world today and, some of it might be standing outside her door right now. She hesitated, her hand on the knob, her throat dry and, as she paused, the voice came again.

"Please – he – he's bleeding so badly and – I can't stop it," there was a silence and then a sharp intake of breath, hitching and tearful, "he – please…"

She came to a decision, wrong or right, her compassion outweighing her fear. The door was dead-bolted and she pulled it back, heavy in her hand, swinging to door inwards.

There were two men on her porch. One was extremely tall, broad, almost frighteningly large, with shaggy, too long hair, intense hazel eyes and a jaw that was strong and determined. He was cradling another man in his arms; this one smaller and broader, his head hanging so far back she could not see his face. Blood ran out from almost every part of him, his arms, his legs, his neck. He looked as if he had been attacked by wild animals and she winced, knowing that they were deep into bear country and this would not be the first mauling she had seen.

"Come in," there was no hesitation now and she stepped aside so that the man could come in. He gave her a brief, tight smile and staggered through, carrying his burden as if it were precious gold. She caught a glimpse of the other's face now and she couldn't hold back a gasp as she saw the scratches and welts that marred the surface of his skin. Under other circumstances she would have thought him handsome, but here and now, he looked like a bloody corpse. "What happened?" She spoke gently, her hand fluttering over the tall man's shoulder.

"He – it was – dogs," he lay the bleeding man down on her sofa and, instantly, the beautiful russet that her and her husband had chosen so carefully, turned red and dirty. The tall man looked at her, his eyes wild, "I'm so sorry," he croaked out, "I'll make sure that…"

"Don't," she put up her hand, at a loss of what to do, "you should go to a hospital, he looks like he needs professional help, maybe a shot or two, he is – he is bleeding so badly."

"I can't take him to hospital – it wouldn't, it wouldn't do any good anyway," his face was pale and, now she could see him closely, tear-stained, the eyes red-rimmed.

She drew in a breath.

He was just a boy really, probably younger than her own children, vulnerable and innocent looking, despite his size. He looked, for a moment, like a small boy trapped in a man's body, frightened, alone, in need of comfort. She bent forward and put her hand, ever so softly, on his shoulder. He shuddered, his hands stroking over his bleeding friend, trying, fruitlessly, to stem the flow.

She kept a first aid kit in the kitchen but was sure that she had nothing that could help the injured man in her living room. She wasn't used to seeing so much blood, so much pain and it disturbed her and made her feel sick inside. She also wondered, briefly, what sort of dog might leave such wounds and she shuddered, vowing never to walk the puppy in the forest again.

The tall man took the kit from her and pulled out the cotton wool and bandages. She gave him towels and tee-towels, watching in morbid fascination as they turned red as he pressed them against flesh. The other man never made a sound, never moved, the only indication that he was alive, the slight movement of his chest.

The sun was rising when he died; he never woke up, never regained consciousness, just slipped away, silently, blood still pouring from his wounds, the other bent over him, fruitlessly mopping up blood, arms wrapped so tight around him that she thought he might never let go.

She felt useless; unable to offer nothing but words and a strong, sweet coffee.

The younger man was slumped over his companion, shoulders shaking. She moved to his side and knelt, putting her arms around him, unafraid now, just wanting to give something, to feel useful again. He sobbed against her, harsh, unforgiving, sobs that shook him from head to toe, his hands clinging to her, fingers bound so tightly on her upper arms, she felt sure that there would be bruises.

The sun was high in a clear blue sky when he left; he thanked her, throat thick and scratchy, offering to pay for the couch, for the damage. She shook her head, scooping up the puppy and clinging to him, burying her face in his fur.

She gave him an old coverlet to wrap the body in and assured him that there would be no cops, no repercussions. There was nothing she could say, she didn't even know their names, their story, their history. All she had was a bloodied couch and an experience that she would never forget.

She watched as the lay the corpse in the back of a large, black car. Old and classic, under other circumstances she might ask, might want to hear the story. Now, though, she stands silently, as he arranges the body lovingly, talking to it, as if there were still life in those poor, tortured limbs.

He slumps in the front seat, face so white that his eyes stand out starkly against the skin. He rubs his hair back from his face and, in daylight, she sees how young he really is, how handsome he is or would be, in any other life.

He glances back, at her, at the cabin, at the coming day and he lifts a hand in farewell. He winds down the car window, eyes bright and says, simply, "Pray for me," then he is gone.

And that night, she prays, prays for the first time in a long time, prays for herself, prays for her family, prays for her dead husband and even for her little puppy. At the end of her prayer, she says amen and thinks of the lost boy and his bloody burden.

She doesn't know if God is out there, she can only hope he is listening.

End


End file.
